Never Say Die
by Secondhand Ragdoll
Summary: AU. The finer things in life are free. Everything else costs dearly. A ROMY Darkfic.
1. Darkness

**Full Summary: **AU. There are rumors on the streets of New Orleans of something dark hidden within the catacombs of the city. Something beyond price. Something, even, worth dying for. A story about the blackest secrets of appetite and sin. ROMY Darkfic.  
**A/N: **I was feelin' a little homesick this week, so I sat down with some coffee and I started writing and, hey presto: A Story. It was kind of like an unplanned pregnancy in retrospect. Just wanted to jot down some things that I really missed about N'Awlins and as I was typing I was like, "What's this? A story? Oh dear God, no. Stop that, that's a bad muse." This is my debut fiction online, in celebration of the end of the school year and of my impending move back to the city that has my heart. I realize that this chapter is kinda long (though not as long as this note, it seems…) and maybe even a little dull but give it a shot, huh? Rogue will even be in the next chapter, pinky promise. Also, it's important to note that some things about the city have been changed to make my job easier. And one last thing (I swear, I'll stop talking soon): it may be confusing to read since this site won't let authors alter the formats of the stories much--but the **italicized paragraphs represent a simultaneous storyline.  
Disclaimer:** Do I own Marvel? What do you think?

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**Never Say Die  
**Chapter One

Remy shut the engine off and sat on the motorbike for a moment, combing his hair out with his fingers while he watched the valet bend over and stub his cigarette against the sole of his shoe. The sun had already set, but it was still hot enough that the clean undershirt he had put on an hour ago clung to his back when he put the kickstand down with the toe of his boot, and he could feel sweat dampening the waistband of his pants. The valet pushed away from the wall and looked down for a moment, straightening his vest.

"Park your motorcycle for you, sir?" he asked, looking up again.

Remy leaned over and spat grit from the freeway out and then wiped his mouth with the inside of his wrist. "T'anks, _mon ami_," he said. He took the keys out of the ignition and tossed them to the valet, who caught them against his chest. "You got de time?"

The man tugged the sleeve of his dress shirt up and checked his watch. "Half past the hour," he said.

Remy nodded, swinging his leg off the motorcycle and standing.

"Late?" The man asked.

"Like you wouldn't believe," Remy answered, knocking the man's shoulder as he brushed past him. He could see his own reflection in the glass double doors of the restaurant: the smudge of motor oil on his cheek; the glint of stubble on his unshaven jaw; the wrinkled clothes that he had found lying helterskelter where they had been torn off earlier: some hanging from the dresser knob, or a bedpost, or simply in a pile on the floor. He turned back. "How much for de _cravat_?"

The valet stopped. "My tie?" He glanced down and shook his head. "I don't know. Fifty bucks?"

Remy dug in his pocket and took out a crumpled bill and opened it. He pulled out another and glanced at it and said, "Forty. Best offer."

The man loosened the tieknot with a few short tugs and then ducked his head and took it off. He held it out to Remy, swinging from his forefinger in the breeze. Remy slapped the money into the valet's hand, and the man held it up and said, "Hey, thanks."

"My pleasure," he said over his shoulder, his fingers already sliding the knot up to the collar of his shirt to hide the bite marks on his neck as he pushed open the door to the restaurant.

_After the sun had set in New Orleans, the lamplighters came outside and struck their matches against their thumbnails and lit the gas lanterns along the streets of the French Quarter. The jazz musicians left their flats with buckets and with saxophones, and they set the buckets on the sidewalk corners and stood beside them while they played. A man closed the wrought iron gate around Jackson Square Park and locked it and then put his hand on the gate and rattled it to make sure it was secure before he slipped the key into his pocket and limped away. And when he had gone, the coachmen began to line their carriages up by the park. They climbed down from the cabs and tied their reins to the fence, and then stood holding the mules by their bridles and patting their muzzles while they waited for fare._

"You're late," Jean-Luc said as Remy pulled a chair away from the table and sat down.

"I know," Remy said unapologetically, unfolding his napkin. Jean-Luc overturned a goblet and took the wine bottle out of its bucket of ice.

"White?" asked Remy.

Jean-Luc shook his head. "Red," he said. There was a click as the bottleneck met the rim of the glass, followed by a short slosh of wine. He handed it to his son. "I've been waitin' for forty minutes."

"Traffic," said Remy offhandedly. He took the glass and swilled it around before taking a drink and then pursing his lips.

"Is dat what y'call it now?" said Jean-Luc, putting the bottle away. He raised two fingers for the waiter. "Tell me, is 'traffic' still asleep in your bed?"

Remy laughed quietly. "A man don't kiss an' tell, _mon père,_" he said. He set the glass down. "You had somet'ing t'discuss?"

"Yes," he said. "T'ieves business." The waiter came and took a pen and a pad from the pocket of his apron skirt and Jean-Luc fell silent. They ordered crawfish étouffé and gumbo with potato salad, and when the waiter had left, Jean-Luc leaned forward and interlaced his fingers. "I got somet'ing y'really goin t'love, Remy," he said. "I got somet'ing _extraordinary_."

_In front of Jackson Square, the mystics gathered. _

_They gathered between the white cathedral and the locked gate and they set up their folding tables and spread their oilcloths over the tables and lit their candles. Then they sat down and waited for the tourists to arrive. They waited while policemen rode their horses past them on the slate sidewalks, their hoovesteps falling away into the night. They waited while the moon darkened slowly overhead until there was nothing left of it except a thin sickle of silver light. _

_They waited. _

They were quiet as they stared at each other over the table, listening to the clink of flatware against plates and the low murmur of the other diners. Remy sat back in the chair slowly, holding his elbows in his palms. "Here?" He said, raising his eyebrows and pointing to the floor. "In New Orleans?" He shook his head. "_Non_."

"You're not interested?"

"No, I meant your information is wrong. You're mistaken."

"Why?"

"Because it doesn't exist. Because it _can't_ exist."

Jean-Luc leaned across the table and whispered:

"But what if it did?"

_They saw the eclipse and knew that it was an omen. There was a pall over the square as they read the palms of the tourists and put the money they earned away in zippered pouches. A woman with a bandanna tied over her hair began to shuffle a deck of tarot cards and then laid five facedown on the table, her ringed fingers flashing in the lamplight. She paused for a moment and then turned over the first card. A yellow card with the drawing of a young man stepping off a cliff. Seven uppercase letters at the bottom of the picture spelled out the words "The Fool."_

_The woman's fingers touched the face of the man on the card, and she said softly to herself:_

_"This is the beginning."_

"Dey say it's cursed."

The server came pushing a trolley in front of him and set their orders in front of them with a clatter of dishware. Jean-Luc thanked him and waited until he was gone. Then he lifted the lid from the salver and watched steam boil out from the crawfish. "Rumors, Remy," he said, spooning potato salad onto his plate. They ate in silence. After awhile, Remy put the spoon down and wiped his mouth with the napkin. He picked up the goblet of wine and brought it to his lips and said, "How much is it worth?" before taking a sip.

Jean-Luc dipped his fingers into the bowl of lemonwater the waiter had left. "It's priceless," he said after a moment.

"Does Henri know?"

The man shook his head, sitting back and adjusting the waistband of his pants. "Only you."

"Why?"

"You're de only one who can. Now, y'gonna call or fold?"

Remy wiped his hands on the tablecloth and looked at his father. "I'm in."

_She turned over the second card. "The Knight of Wands," she read aloud. A palm reader at a nearby table looked up. "The protagonist of the story is a man of great physically attraction. Arrogant. Overconfident. He is often pursues sexual conquests."  
_

"Dere be one minor complication," Jean-Luc said, flagging the attendant. "You're not de only one after dis t'ing."

"I t'ought no one else knew."

He waved his hand dismissively. "Dis one is not from de Guild. Goes by de trade name 'Rogue.'"

"Rogue?" he repeated as the dishes were cleared away. "What do you know about him?"

Jean-Luc made an 'O' with his hands. "_Rien_."

"Not'ing at all?"

"Not one goddamn t'ing."

_"The Queen of Wands." The candleflame gutters. "The knight is opposed by a woman who is both vigorous and strong. She is sexually appealing, and makes a powerful first impression."_

Remy opened the door and held it for his father. He could feel the humidity even before he stepped outside and let it fall shut behind him, a hiss of cool air escaping the building. He took the tin of cigarettes out of his pocket, removed one and slid it behind his ear.

"Look at dat sky," Jean-Luc was saying. He nodded his chin at the roofline. "Don't make it dat color anywhere else. Purple-like."

Remy could hear the engine of the bike approaching and put the tin away. He glanced up at the sky, and before he stepped off the curb he looked at his father and said:

"Where's de moon?"  
_  
_

_"The Tower. He will soon experience an upheaval or a humbling. What was hidden will now be exposed."_

Remy swung his leg over the bike. He heard Jean-Luc say something and looked up. The man reached into his back pocket for his billfold, and then took out a folded piece of paper and held it between his fore and middle fingers.

Remy took the paper from him. "What's dis?"

"It's de only clue we got right now. I sent your R.S.V.P. already. Be dere."

Remy nodded. "_À bientôt,_" he said, revving the motor.

Jean-Luc stepped back as he pulled away from the sidewalk and into traffic, and when Remy looked back, he could see his father standing in the city with his hands in his pockets and staring at the New Orleans sky, and at the place where the moon used to be.

_When she reached the last card, the fortune teller paused. The belltower of St. Louis was chiming the hour, competing with the jazz and the zydeco and the blues and the Cajun music that vibrated from the walls of the city. The eclipse had passed and the moon was once again in the sky, pale and bright. Slowly, she turned flipped the card. She was still for a long time thereafter, sitting with her knuckles pressed against her mouth and her other arm extended along the table as she held the card in her fingertips. Then she said in a whisper that seemed to resonate beneath the music of Jackson Square, "Something wicked this way comes." _

_She let the card fall from her fingers and twirl to the ground, and there it remained, face-up on the stone tiles. The illustration showed two humans chained to a throne where a monster sat and watched, holding a burning torch down at his side. And beneath the picture, boldfaced words read:_

_"THE DEVIL."_

**A/N: **As if one author's note isn't bad enough, right? So, I'm guessing this is like Olympic ice skating or something. I put on a glittery little tutu and do my routine and then you hold up a scorecard, 1 to 10? Well, in that case, the ball's in your court. So…Review, pretty please?  
**P.S**. Iknow, I know. I abused the melodrama in this chapter.  
**P.P.S.** Any guesses as to what he's after? Come on, humor a girl. Take a shot and I'll even give ya a cookie.  
**P.P.P.S.** God, I'm a windbag.

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	2. Sins of the Flesh

**Full Summary: **AU. There are rumors on the streets of New Orleans of something dark hidden within the catacombs of the city. Something beyond price. Something, even, worth dying for. A story about the blackest secrets of appetite and sin. ROMY Darkfic.  
**A/N: **The Author's Note has been relocated to the bottom of the page due to sheer magnitude. It's like one of those frickin' toys that expand up to 600 times their original size when you put them in a glass of water.  
**Disclaimer**: Everything I own could be packed up in a suitcase and pawned for booze. Suffice to say, the X-Men and the lyrics to Spill Canvas' song "Bracelet" aren't in that suitcase.

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**Never Say Die  
**Chapter Two: Sins of the Flesh

Remy finally awakened to wings fluttering in the canted light and to the click of pigeon talons on the gutterpipes overhead. He lifted his head a ways from the slate alleyway floor and then dropped it again and groaned and pressed his fingers to his eyes. He swallowed, his Adam's apple bobbing, and then he sat up slowly, still holding his head in his hands. He gathered his feet beneath him and began to stand, but his left knee buckled so that he pitched forward and hit the painted brick wall with his shoulder and then slid down to the ground again, clutching his arm.

And that's when he began to remember.

_He had waited by the open door and smoked while the curator stood up inside and held a flute of champagne over his head, tapping the tines of his fork against the glass. The street had been empty except for a boy sitting on the daywarmed concrete tiles of the sidewalk and playing the guitar to himself, his words echoing through the openwork of the balconies so that Remy could not ignore them as he sang:_

In this dream that I had...  
"You can't kill heroes"-that's what we said to them  
"You can't kill us"  
With our instruments broken before us  
And the boys in the line they begin to count to five  
And the trigger pulls  
The bullets pepper the brick wall behind our heads  
And the smoke, it fills the air  
The captain yells to cease fire  
And the squad begins to wait and stare  
As the dust clears the air, and we're still standing  
With smiles on both our faces  
We spit their faulty ammo to the ground  
And remind them once again  
With smiles on both our faces  
We spit their faulty ammo to the ground  
And remind them once again that you can't kill heroes

_There had been a chime of applause from inside the museum, and Remy had looked away from the boy as the curator had clipped the silk ribbon tied to the door of the exhibit and the ends had fluttered down, hanging limply from the jambs. He'd slid his hand into the pocket of his trousers and jostled it, and, hearing the clink of change, he had taken out a handful. He'd opened his fist over the pail by the boy's knee. It had been hot, and the coins had clung to Remy's palm before dropping away into the pail and clattering against the rock the boy has used to weight it down. The boy had touched the brim of his baseball cap silently._

_Remy had flicked away his cigarette butt and tugged the lapels of his blazer and smoothed his fingers over his hair. The museum had been stifling when he stepped inside and shouldered his way through the guests, pausing to glance around the room when he reached the buffet table. Jean-Luc had made it clear that there were to be no frivolous distractions tonight, so he had shook his head and said, "No, t'ank you chère," when the busgirl had offered him a tray of wine. Still, despite the emphasis on the assignment, he had not been able to resist adding, "My appetite ain't for de champagne," and throwing her a roguish wink. The busgirl had blushed, and he'd touched her elbow before turning to move away._

_And that's when he had seen her._

_She had been standing alone in the center of the room and holding her elbows. Standing perfectly, utterly still and holding her elbows while everyone else had teemed around her in a bumbling rush and become a blur in her periphery. Someone had bumped into his shoulder as they'd brushed past, but he hadn't noticed, hadn't looked away._

_He_ could _not look away._

_She had been wearing a black cocktail dress with a halter neck and wrist-length gloves, and beneath the velvet, he had been able see the fragile line of her collarbone, the curve of her hips, the hollow at her throat where her clavicles met._

_She was perfect._

_He had not been the only one staring at her. She was lust incarnate, with her pale skin and her messy black eyeliner and the lock of white hair that banded her dark tresses and burned beneath the artificial light. He was moving through the crowd before he even realized it._

_"Evenin', p'tite," he'd said, taking off his jacket and slinging it over his shoulder. The figure he had cut was a dashing one--the long, narrow-legged black pants, the white dress shirt clinging to an athletic frame, the tangled hair and casual pose and charming smile._

_He'd practically exuded sex._

_"Can I buy de lady a drink?"_

_She had glanced over her shoulder, as if she hadn't been sure who he was addressing. When she'd looked back at him, he had been able to see her eyes for the first time--a frost-rimed shade of green, ringed with a darker hue and made more intense for all the heavy mascara. They were heartbreakingly innocent, and yet jaded. Virginal, but disinterested. Pure and cynical._

_He had to have her._

_"Ah sincerely doubt it, considerin' it's open bar," she'd said._

_"I know a place." He'd touched her gloved hand, his fingers gently entwining hers, but she'd pulled away quickly, almost reflexively, as though burnt._

_"Ah--Ah'm sorry, no," she'd said, flustered, rubbing the singed hand with her thumb. "T'night's strictly business, sugah."_

_He had meant to ask her what she did, but his pager had begun to blink, and he'd cursed as he unclipped it from his belt and examined the message scrolling across the screen. She'd looked away and then she'd said, "Ah gotta go," before melting into the throngs and disappearing, still clutching her bare arms around herself. When he'd looked up again, she had been gone, and he had glanced once more at the screen of the pager, where a single word had been flashing:_

_Now_

_And he had known exactly what had had to be done._

When he reached the street, leaning heavily against the wall, proprietors were already washing beer off the sidewalk with pistolgrip hoses. The water darkened the cement and sprayed off the curb, gathering in the gutters where it ran downhill and sparkled, coined by the early morning sunlight. He stumbled by a man who was untying the string that folded the awning over his archway.

"Rough night?" The man asked once Remy had past.

Remy did not look back when he replied : "You don't know de half of it."

_In the bathroom, he'd turned the coldwater faucet slowly, his fingers interrupting the spat of water against the marble basin. He'd splashed the water on his face and then he'd run both his hands through his hair, pulling the loose strands away from his face. Remy had gripped the sink and looked up at his reflection in the mirror. There was no reason he couldn't do this. No reason he couldn't focus on the simple burglary at hand._

Black velvet gloves; the flash of a mesh petticoat; an uncertain smile.

_No reason at all._

_He'd nodded once, his eyes still fixed on the image in the looking glass. "Let's get dis over wit'." Remy had unbuttoned his dress shirt, tugging the shirttails out of his pants as he did. He'd taken it off and stuffed it in the wastebin and then he'd picked his blazer up off the floor. He had pulled the white handkerchief out of the breast pocket and snapped it open, smoothing it out against the sink with the side of his palm. An intricate map of the museum's second floor had been traced onto the back of the square piece of cloth in black ink. He'd rolled up the jacket and put it in the trash can and then he'd paused, studying the blueprint. After a moment, he had refolded the kerchief and put it in his pocket. Remy had rolled up his pants and tucked them into his knee-high boots and climbed onto basin, tugging on a pair of gloves. He'd raised his arms over his head, his fingers brushing a vent in the ceiling. Then he'd stood on his toes, pushing the grille off to the side. He had pulled himself up into the small metal shaft and then turned around and replaced the grate. He'd hesitated, his chest heaving, his black wifebeater already beaded with sweat. And then he had begun to crawl._

_He'd moved slowly but silently, counting each vent as he passed over it. When he'd reached the sixth, he had stopped and consulted the map. Then he'd leaned forward and examined the room below. It had been small and plain, lit by a caged light bulb. In the corner, a guard had been sitting at a tin folding table with his foot propped up on his knee and playing solitaire. And right beside the guard, a thin metal circuit box had been mounted on the wall._

Bingo_._

_Remy had hooked his fingers in the grille and pulled it away with a scraping sound. The guard had looked up just as Remy gripped the opening and swung himself down feetfirst, the soles of his boots colliding with the man's skull. He had landed in a crouch on the ground, the fingertips of one hand touching the floor tiles, his other arm held out behind him for balance. He'd glanced at the guard's body and then he had knelt beside him and taken the man's gun out of his holster. _

Better t'err on de side of caution_, he'd thought as he ejected the clip and checked it before using the heel of his palm to push it in again. He had tucked the gun into the waistband of his pants and then bent and patted the man down. There had been a flask of whiskey in his shirtpocket, and Remy had removed it before standing and walking to the table, his footsteps echoing in the empty room. He'd picked up a card and slid it into his pants, and then he'd opened the metal panelboard, the hinges squeaking. There had been a diagram of what each circuit breaker controlled taped to the inside of the door, and on any other night, Remy would have examined it and shut off the electricity to the second floor alone. On any other night._

_But not tonight._

_He had used his teeth to pull the glove off his right hand and then he'd pressed his palm flat against the panelboard, his fingers splayed. When it had begun to glow magenta, Remy had unscrewed the flask of whiskey and taken a sip and then he'd set it inside the box and closed the door and he had spun around and sprinted, using his momentum to run partway up the wall. When he had felt the pull of gravity, the muscles in his legs had contracted and he'd launched himself away from the wall, arms outstretched above his head. He'd snagged the vent with his fingers, his biceps corded as he pulled himself up, his legs kicking. Below him there had been a loud explosion and the circuit box door had been blown off its hinges. It had hit the opposite wall with a clang and fallen to the floor, fire boiling out from the panelboard and shattering the light bulb and filling the room with a supernova of heat and color and shrapnel. Then he had been inside the shaft again, wriggling forward, his nose and mouth buried in the crook of his arm as smoke rolled up into the vent and threatened to choke him._

_And then the lights had gone out, one by one, room after room falling away into darkness._

Remy closed the door to the apartment behind himself and slid the shacklebolt shut. He put his hand on the doorknob for balance and then bent over and took off his boots and tossed them aside. The light on his answering machine was blinking. He set his keys down on the counter and pressed the playback button.

"Remy." It was Jean-Luc's voice. Suddenly, Remy felt an upsurge of anger, unwilling to listen to the question he knew he would eventually have to answer: _Did you get it?_

"_No!_" He shouted. He yanked the phone line out of the jack and then swept his forearm across the counter, knocking the recorder to the floor where it shattered and sent pieces skittering across the linoleum. He stood there in the ruins for a moment, seething, and when he finally turned to leave, he could hear the fragments of it crunch beneath his feet.

_Remy had used the back of his hand to push away the curtains from the second story window of the museum, watching as the guests poured out through the open doors of the antechamber and gathered in the streets. He had known that he did not have long before the authorities began to arrive. He had turned away, the drapes falling back into place with a shudder._

_He'd had work to do._

_The room he had been in was devoted to the history of voodoo in New Orleans, intended for children and for tourists. There had been virtually nothing of value inside, which meant that the locks were simple and the security lax. He had taken out a penlight and clicked it on and then he'd shone it around the room. It had been easy to find the target, an old invoice from the turn of the century. Remy had held the penlight in his teeth while he picked the lock, and when he had finished he clicked it off again and dropped the light to the floor, where it rolled until it hit the wall and rocked to a stop. He had taken the document out and scanned it and then closed the glass case again. And that's when he'd heard it behind him._

_The footstep._

_His breath had caught in his throat when he had heard the quiet sound of the sole against the stonecold floors, and he had turned his head slightly to the side, his eyes downcast as he listened. He hadn't liked what he had heard._

_He had heard silence._

_Utter. Silence._

_He'd eased the guard's handgun from the waistband of his pants and held it close to his stomach, and there had been a moment of perfect stillness before he had rotated, dropping to one knee and bringing the gun up in a single, fluid motion._

_And then there she had been._

_The dress had been gone, replaced by a black catsuit that fit her like a second skin. There had been a utility belt buckled loosely around her waist so that it slouched off one hip and she had been wearing combat boots, her hair tied back into a tight ponytail. In one hand, her high heels dangled by their straps, and the other hand gripped a pistol fitted with a silencer. Her eyes had flickered down to the paper in his hand and then back up to his face._

_And then he'd realized._

_"Rogue," he'd said._

_She had seemed so young, so young, standing in front of a window with drawn curtains, the moonlight coming through the latticed panes and casting diamondleaf patterns over her skin. "In th' flesh," she had replied, dropping the high heels to the ground._

_"Dey sendin' children t'do a man's job now?"_

_She'd tilted her head. "Careful, sugah," she'd said. "Y'all could hurt a girl's feelins, talkin' like that."_

_"Dis ain't a game,_ chère_," he'd said, folding the invoice away in his pocket and standing, the barrel still trained on her. "Y' could hurt a lot more dan jus' your feelings."_

_"Yah talk big, LeBeau," she had said, "but y'all better make sure your shot doesn't miss." The sound of a hammer being cocked resounded in the darkness. "'Cause I can guarantee the second one that's fired won't."_

_He had waited a beat as he gauged her tone and the expression on her face. Then he had taken a gamble. "I don't t'ink you got de backbone."_

_Remy had not even heard the sound of her shot firing. Just metallic pang of the bullet against his gun, and then his hand had opened reflexively and he'd dropped it._

_She had taken a few sideways steps forward. "Give me th' invoice."_

_He'd held his hands up and then he'd slowly reached into his pocket for the paper and had felt his fingers brush against something stiff._ The playing card_._

_He had smiled._

_When she had seen the ace in his hand, she had thrown herself to the ground__, tucking her arms in at her sides and rolling away. The card had hit the wall behind her and exploded, glass bursting outward, plaster hailing down in a cloud of limedust that hung in the air and shone silver in the moonlight. For a moment there had been a silence, his ears ringing from the blast. Then he had seen a dark figure push itself up on its hands and knees in the smoke, chunks of drywall sliding off its back. There had been fine grains of glass in her hair that sparkled as her chest rose and fell rapidly, plaster clinging to her uniform like hoar frost. "Flashy," she had said, and then coughed, doubled up and holding her stomach. She had sat back on her heels, wiping blood away from her lower lip with the back of her hand. "Ah get it, it's like show an' tell," she'd said huskily, standing. She'd narrowed her eyes. "Mah turn."_

_She had been fast, but he had been faster. She'd sprinted at him and he'd grabbed her wrists and used her velocity to pivot and push her against the wall. The impact had forced the air out of her lungs and she'd gasped. A strand of hair had come loose and it fluttered in and out as she panted, her hands pinned up near her head. Remy had been close enough to count her heartbeats through the thin Lycra of her bodysuit. "I gave you fair warnin, p'tite. Now what am I s'posed t' do?"_

_The corner of her lip had turned upward. "Kiss me goodbye, Ah guess," she'd said. _

_And then she'd closed the gap between them._

_He had gone entirely still for a moment, and for an instant he could not hear the ringing in his ears or smell the sheetrock or taste the blood in her mouth. Then his senses had returned with a crashing intensity and his eyes had fluttered shut and he'd leaned forward, hungry, opening his lips and kissing her back so forcefully her head had hit the wall behind her__. His heart had been battering against his ribs and he had felt a surge of desire so powerful it had settled like an ache beneath his breastbone. __Then Rogue had taken his lower lip between her teeth and gently nibbled it, and he had not even noticed his grip loosening on her arms. _

_He had not felt himself falling away. _

_She had lowered him to the floor and broken the kiss, and then she had opened her eyes and stared down at him, her hands still on his chest. She'd stayed that way for a few seconds, inches away from his lips, breathing his same air. And then he had heard her raspy, antebellum voice:_

_"Sweet dreams, sugah."_

Remy turned the shower knob off and stood naked in the tub, dripping water as the steam churned around him. After awhile, he pulled the curtain aside, his fist closing around the towel folded on the tank of the toilet. He dried his face with it and then he opened the towel and wrapped it around his waist. His feet left wet impressions on the floors of his apartment that evaporated in the sultry heat as he pushed open the door to his bedroom. He dressed in silence and put on a pair of shoes and then laid back on the bed, the heel of his right foot balanced on the toes of his left. He laid with his fingers knitted over his abdomen and stared up at the ceiling and thought, and after a long time had passed, his lips moved and he murmured out loud:

"I'll kill her."

* * *

**A/N: **So, when I read this chapter, _I _didn't even know what the hell I was talking about. Instead of rewriting it, I decided to cop out and say that whoever has the invoice will know who bought the item they are after, and therefore where to begin searching for it. Also...Mother of All That's Holy, did I ever overuse the pluperfect tense in this chapter! Sorry. Now it's past three in the morning and I'm just too damn sleepy to come up with anything witty for an author's note, so I'll just say that the "something" Rogue and Remy are after is based off a short story published at the turn of the century that's pretty much a staple in most high school English classes. Also, I'd like to thank everyone who's been reading this drivel and everyone who's been reviewing. And if a letter appears repeatedly (Like this: pppppppppppp) anywhere on this page, it probably means that I've fallen asleep on my keyboard.

**They-Call-Me-Orange**: Mercy, if you ain't a charmer. You got me blushin'. Well, luckily I've broken my foot, and I can't drink or operate heavy machinery while drugged up on painkillers. Since drinking and operating heavy machinery are pretty much my favorite pastimes, I've had plenty of time to write up this chapter. Constructivecriticize away ( Is it really one word, you ask? Well, I guess it is now.)  
**SiNicaLLY diSTuRbEd:** Wow, a ten. And I didn't even have to sleep with the judges. Huh.  
**beyondreason**: Dude, cool name. Thanks for the review ;) Here's to hopin' you keep reading.  
**SarahtheRogue**: So, I went to your profile and I have to say--good frickin' taste in quotes. "How you uh, how you comin' on that novel you're working on? Huh?" Priceless. Also, um...(glances left, glances right, realizes the coast is clear) Iwasatweenfanfictionwritertoo. God, it feels good to get that off my chest. I hope you enjoyed the chapter ;)  
**ziRi.butterfly**: Aw, you're my new favorite reviewer. Plus you have good taste in music. Plus you hate Britney Spears. There's no Jean in this story, but I'll be happy to bash her in the writer responses for ya (And secretly for me, too. I don't know why, she just irritates me. She's got the personality of a wet mop.)  
**RogueVampire**: Haha, good. I was afraid the interludes with the fortune teller would come off as weak and difficult to understand. So, thanks for the review, and I hope you liked the chapter!  
**The Duplicitous One**: Well, ain't you somethin' else. You're profile has pretty much fascinated me. See, little ol' southern gals like me an' Rogue gotta stick together, so Ah'm obliged ta put in a good word for her (Note me playing up my Southern accent?). But at the same time, her character _has _sorta been circling the drain lately, and I really blame that on poor comic book writers. Also, the fact that you hate Rogue but still like Rogue/Remy really intrigues me. P.S. Also a Rachel/Joey fan.  
**lovestoread**: ...I like you. If I did put other X-Men in it, would it mean I get to keep you around?  
**rubyred517: **I guess I've always thought of the Queen of Pentacles as a very matronly archetype, in tune with nature and able to create a supportive environment. I think she'd fit Storm like a glove, but I imagine Rogue is a little more rebellious. Of course, that's just my interpretation. :) Thanks for reviewing, and I hope you liked the chapter!  
**Terez: **Hey, thanks! Look, I'll will you some good karma in return.  
**Romy lover**: Wow, thanks for the review. I hope you liked the chapter.  
**ishandahalf**: Well, first I'll say thanks for reviewing--it means a lot coming from an established member of the community. As for the story? All secrets soon to be revealed! (I feel like a tabloid when I say that. Odd...)


	3. Scar Tissue

**Full Summary: **AU. There are rumors on the streets of New Orleans of something dark hidden within the catacombs of the city. Something beyond price. Something, even, worth dying for. A story about the blackest secrets of appetite and sin. ROMY Darkfic.  
**A/N: ** Ugh. I've been holding onto this chapter for weeks. I just don't think it's right. But if I don't release it now, the whole story will peter to an end and then I might actually have a life and that idea terrifies me. So, without further ado.**  
Disclaimer**: Shockingly, I haven't acquired Marvel during the thirty-two days since my last disclaimer. And in case "The Hollow Men" isn't in public domain, I don't own that either.

* * *

**Never Say Die**  
Chapter Three: Scar Tissue

The counter was hot beneath his hand, and when he lifted his arm to flag the barkeep, there was a sweaty impression of his palm on the Formica that quickly evaporated. The bartender had been leaning against the wall with her ankles crossed and cleaning a glass with her dishrag. When she saw Remy she set down the glass and wiped her hands on her apron, using her shoulders to launch herself away from the wall.

"What's your poison, pretty boy?" She asked, tucking the rag into the back pocket of her jeans and leaning over the counter.

Remy swiped his eyelid with his thumb. "Bourbon," he muttered, looking away. He watched a girl dancing with her hands outstretched over her head and her eyes closed, turning her head from side to side so that her long hair swung as she moved. He watched the rhythm of feet against the floor and the fingers clenching waists and the swirl of cotton skirts beneath the flashing lights. This was a place he came to when he needed to forget. To lose himself in the pounding of shoesoles and the heat and the thudding of hearts. The bartender took out a tumbler and filled it partway and slid it across the counter toward him.

He nodded at her and then wet his lips and took a sip and set the glass down again, grimacing. He could not drink away the ache that had settled just beneath his ribcage. He could not get the taste of sugar out of his mouth. He took out the tin of cigarettes from the inside pocket of his duster and flipped it open. Remy removed one and licked the tip and then took out a match and popped it against his thumbnail and lit the cigarette. He waved the match out and swallowed the rest of the whiskey, and his throat continued to swallow after it was gone. He coughed and raised the glass above his head, the butt sending up a thin riband of smoke under the artificial lights.

"Thirsty?" The bartender said as she refilled his glass.

"Always," he whispered. She started to put the bottle away but he took a drag from the cigarette and said, "Leave it," the words rolling away in a cloud of smoke. He tapped the butt against the ashtray and then rubbed his forehead with the inside of his wrist.

"Rough day?" The waitress asked.

"Rough week," he said.

She smiled to herself, then took the rag out of her back pocket and began to wipe down the bar, though it was already clean. "Maybe I can help," she said. "I'm getting off work." She looked up at the clock and then untied her apron and slung it over her shoulder. "What do you say?"

He pulled out the barstool next to his, tracing the lip of the tumbler with his finger. "What are you gonna have?"

She took out a bottle of white rum and turned it so he could read the label.

"Little kids shouldn't be drinkin' Silver," he said.

She snorted, unlatching the gate and letting herself out of the bar. "Little kid yourself," she said, taking the seat next to him. "Got a smoke?"

He pushed the tin toward her, watched her cup the tip and strike the hammer of her lighter a couple times. When the fag began to glow red, she set the lighter down and took the cigarette away from her mouth and blew out a stream of smoke. She put her hand on his knee and slid it up and down slowly, each time bringing it higher.

"I can make it go away, you know."

She wasn't the right one. He shrugged, rolling the glass between his palms.

He felt her lips close to his neck, felt her breath elicit goosebumps on his skin. She twined her fingers in his and stood up behind him, pulling his arm so that his barstool spun lazily and he was facing her. "Come on, pretty boy." She put her hand over her mouth and puffed on the cigarette. Behind her, flashing lights fell on bare arms and necks and grinding hips. He reached out and fingered a lock of her hair.

It was all wrong.

She held the butt in her lips and caught his fingers in hers and then smiled, rolling her shoulders to the beat of the music. She pulled him up off the hassock and wrapped her arms around his neck.

He did not move with her.

She wasn't the right one.

The dancers pounded their feet against the floor, and he could feel the vibrations through the soles of his boots.

But she would do.

His fingers tightened on her pelvis, bringing her closer. She smiled into the collar of his shirt and tilted her face up toward his. "Why so sad?"

He brushed hair away from her eyes, and instead of answering he leant down and kissed her. Around them, bodies twisted and writhed and the bass pulsed and the world did not slow on its axis. It did not stop for her. He could still see the disco lights dappling her face and moving away. He could still hear the music. He could taste her.

She did not taste like sugar.

He turned away. She grabbed his wrist and tripped as she followed him off the dancefloor. When he got to the bar he wrenched his arm free and stubbed his cigarette out in the ashtray and tossed off his drink.

"You're leaving?" She said as he picked his trench coat off the stool and folded it over his arm.

He shouldered through the door and into the alleyway, heard it bang open behind him.

"Hey." She lunged forward and got hold of his sleeve, swinging him around. He raised his arms in exasperation.

"What?"

"That's it? You're just gonna take off?"

He looked off to the side, pretending to consider it, then looked back at her. "Yeah."

He tried to turn again, but she tightened her grip and held him there. "Wait."

He looked down at her.

"Give me a name."

He studied her for a moment. "Remy," he said, taking his wrist back. "LeBeau."

"_That _Remy LeBeau?" She nodded her chin at the brick wall behind him. He twisted around. Written on the brick in black sharpie was his name, encircled by a heart.

This was a place he came to when he needed to forget.

He pulled the duster on and then put his hands on the lapels and snapped them open and shut. "Yeah," he said, his red eyes burning up the darkness. He began to walk away with an uneven gait, his shoes scuffing the tarmac. "That Remy LeBeau."

...

_Every once in awhile, a leaf breaks loose of the sugar maples lining the river and twirls downward, flashing now and then as it catches the light. He watches them as they land on the dark waters of the Mississippi river and float downstream, rotating lazily as the current carries them away. The virgin's bower forms lacy patterns on the tree he is in, and he swings his leg as he sits with his back against the trunk. He takes the jaffa orange out of his pocket and begins to peel it with his jackknife, watching the skin fall away into the water as he works. When he is done, he folds the blade back in with the heel of his palm and takes a bite, the juice running down his chin. He wipes it away with the back of his hand._

_It takes him a moment to see her. She is standing by the Mississippi and wearing a white dress, and her skin is spangled by the sunlight sifting through the sugar leaves. He has never seen anyone here before--here, at the ruins of the granary beside the river where the cement jetty has begun to crack and the bunch grass grows up in the spaces in between. He drops down from the tree and lands on all fours._

_She looks over at him carelessly. The brick walls of the Court of Two Sisters are crumbling and curtained with ivy and white Christmas lights, and cradled between them is a fountain whose waters are dyed the exact same shade of blue as her eyes. He cannot look away. He holds out his hand._

"_Name's Remy."_

_She looks at his bare feet and then at his hand, still sticky from the Jaffa. She takes it._

"_Bella Donna." _

_The banquet room is empty when he returns. There is confetti on the floor, and his boots stir it up into the air so that it drifts down lazily in his wake. _

"_Julien?" His voice echoes. He pivots around in a circle, scanning the hall for his brother-in-law. He hears a sound from a darkened corner and when he turns, he sees the boy's slender figure rocking back on the rear two legs of his chair, one hand steadying himself on the table. Remy takes a step forward and then stops. "Been lookin' for you, homme_."

_The front legs thump back down on the carpet. "That right?" He says. "Belle's worried sick about me, neh? An' now you be here, comin' t' my rescue like a reglar goddamned hero."_

"_I jus' want to get y'home."_

"_Dey all look up t'you y'know. Call you de _Diable Blanc. _De White Devil. Like you some kinda god." He purses his lips, shaking his head slowly. "Dey don' have a clue."_

"_I don' want any trouble t'night, Julien."_

"'_Course y'don'. You not'ing but a coward. And dey say you gon unite de Guilds." He starts to laugh bitterly, and then he chokes up and sits back in his chair with his elbow on the table and his fist in his mouth as he stares off into nothing. After awhile, he leans forward and picks up the glass of champagne and raises it over his head and mutters, "T'de happy couple, may dey rot in pieces." He tosses the drink back and swallows. He is still for a moment, and then he stands so suddenly his chair clatters backward and he flings the empty flute at the wall where it explodes in a rainfall of glass._

_Remy is very quiet. "I t'ink you've had too much t'drink," he says. "I t'ink y' maybe ought to come wit' me, now."_

"'I t'ink y' maybe ought to come wit' me, now,_'" Julien mimics. He rips the tablecloth away from the table, sending the wedding cake crashing to the floor. A dish rattles to a standstill. "_Fuck _that. It shoulda been me leadin' de guilds, LeBeau. You ain't even half de man I am." He kicks the chair. "Not half!" _

_Remy raises his hands a ways and then lets them drop back to his sides again, frustrated. "You t'ink I asked for dis?" he says. "What do you want me to do?"_

_Julien is standing with his hands clenched at his sides, chest rising and falling heavily, his head bowed and his shoulders rolled back. "Fight me," he whispers._

"_What?"_

"_Fight me!" He shouts, catching the underside of one of the tables with his fingers and overturning it. "I'll take back what y' stole from me, t'ief." He looks up, his jaw set, and his eyes meet Remy's. _

"_I'll take back de assassins."_

"_Belle. Belle, wait up." It has begun to rain, and his feet send up spumes of water from the gutters as he runs after her, spattering the legs of his jeans with dark medallions. He jostles his way through the crowds on the street and sees her up ahead. "Belle--" he grabs her elbow and spins her around. She brings her hand up and slaps him. Hard. He releases her arm and raises his fingers to his face, more hurt by the malevolence than the sting in his cheek._

"_I didn't have a choice," he says. The rain falls as finely as a secret, sending up a halo of mist around everything it touches. It is cold, and they can see their breath in the air. His hair is sticking to his skin and he blinks away the water on his eyelashes. _

"_Just leave already, Remy. Get outta Dodge. I don' want y' here no more."_

"_Takes a liar t' know a liar, chère," he said, "so dere ain't nobody in de world who's got it on better authority dan me dat you don' mean dat." _

_She stares at him evenly. "But I do. I want y' t' leave, Remy. I don't wanna remember ever time I see your face."_

"_I can't. I don' know what kinda man I'd be wit'out you. I don' wanna know." He takes a step toward her and touches her arms and says in a whisper, "I'm in love wit' you."_

_Her eyebrows knit together. He cannot tell whether or not the wetness on her cheeks is tears. She shakes her head almost imperceptibly, her blue eyes never leaving his. There is a heartbeat of stillness. Then she takes a few skipping steps backward and turns away, tugging her hood up over her head as she begins to run. And she runs away from him. _

_This time, he does not follow. _

_He simply stands alone in the downpour and watches her disappear._

_Leaves twirling downward blood, blood on the floor by the wedding cake. He holds out his hand, still sticky from the jaffa orange. He watches her run away, holding the hood down over her face._

_Wake up, Julien. Wake up wake up wake up._

_Rice spilling out of the pocket of the black silk dinner jacket and crunching beneath his boots and skittering across the floor. God, what have I done?_

What have I done?

_BANG!_

She caught herself before she hit the ground, slamming her palms into the floor so hard the floorboards jumped. _Musta fell off the bed, _she thought, rolling over onto her back and staring up at the ceiling. _Nice ta know Ah still got th' cajun's reflexes at least. _One of her bra straps had slipped off her shoulder during the night, and she pulled it back up as she sat upright.

"Anyone ever tell you you sleep like the dead?"

She looked over at the four-poster, rubbing her eye with the heel of her palm. The boy stretched out on her bed with his fingers laced behind his head raised an eyebrow at her. He was long and aerodynamic, and his white t shirt glowed against suntanned skin.

"I had to tilt the mattress to getcha up," he said.

"Y'all shoulda just let me get mah beauty rest, St. John," she muttered, picking a tattered lace and crinoline skirt off the floor and stepping into it. "Now Ah _feel _like the dead." She snugged it up around her waist and twirled around, watching the fabric pinwheel.

"I woulda if it was up to me," he said. "Mystique's been carryin' on like a pork chop ever since ya got back."

Rogue ran her fingers over the front of her racerback tank, the black cotton still moist from her nightmares. "What is it this time?" she asked.

St. John turned onto his side with one elbow propped up on the bed and leaned the side of his face against his fist. "It's Saturday arvo, sheila," he said. "You been in a coma f' three days."

Her hand slipped at the vanity table and a lipstick fell to the ground and rolled away. "Say _what_?" She asked incredulously, turning to look at him.

He nodded. "Things were looking pretty crook for awhile, butcha pulled yaself together all roight," he said.

"Judas priest."

He was wearing tight black jeans with a yellow belt, and she had been able to see in the pocket of his pants the impression of a butane lighter. He slid it out and flicked it open with his thumb, then whipped it shut again. She waited for him to speak, watching his reflection in the mirror as she tugged on a pair of opera gloves.

"Your eyeliner's all smudged," he said finally. Flick. Switch. "Makes ya look loike a junkie."

She rolled her eyes. "Thanks, St. John."

Flick. Switch.

"It's edgy. I loike it."

She put her hands on the table and let her head fall back in exasperation. "Y'all jus' gonna sit there an' watch me?"

Flick. Switch. "I dunno, mate. Doesn't sound loike such a bad idea." He caught the cloth she threw at him.

"Seriously, now."

He shrugged with one shoulder. "Yah gave Mystique a real scare. Kept groanin' and mutterin' in your sleep. Sayin' 'wake up' over an over again." He looked at her closely. "You roight?"

_Skin as white and fragile as a sparrow's egg. The knife hits the floor with a chime and he takes a step forward. His fingers hesitate an inch away the flesh. Then he grips the boys' arms tightly and lifts his torso away from the ground. The head lolls backward._

"_Wake up, Julien."_

_His body is heavy._

"_Wake up, wake up, wake up, WAKE UP!" _

_He punctuates each clause with a shake. The boy's eyes are still open. He does not blink. He thinks to himself, This is not what sleep looks like._

_This is not what sleep looks like._

She turned her head slightly, her eyes lowered, and whispered into her shoulder, "I'll be fine."

But there were goosebumps on her arms and there was a ringing silence in the room, and neither one of them believed what she was saying.

...

_Georgie Porgie, puddin' an pie  
Kiss the girls and make them cry  
Make them cry  
Make them cry_

How did it start? He doesn't know.

Leaning up against dirty zinc bars. Neon light filtering through the smoke like a fog. A new place each night. A new face. The strobelight shows him in still frames as he moves slowly through the darkness, like a carnivore. Bumping against the hips and the shoulders of dancers, unnoticed. Intoxicated by the stench of sweat.

His pulse quickens. Blood rushes, until he hears nothing except for the sound of the congas drumming in his ears. Feels nothing except fingertips brushing against skin, catching the bottom of her shirt and pulling it up. Hands running up her spine, pulling her closer. There's flesh to sink against, to make him feel so goddamn alive.

He can't get enough.

How did this start? He doesn't remember anymore.

Pressing in the locks on the powder room with his thumb. Fluorescent lights illuminating the smudged lipstick. A new face every night. She raises her arms in the air as he takes the hem of her blouse and lifts it up over her head and then flings it away. It catches against the edge of the sink and slithers to the ground where it lies in a pile of white silk. The smell of sweat. The muscles in their backs contracting. Fingers sliding over flesh. She says, "Tell me you love me."

And he does.

He tells them what they want to hear.

He doesn't tell them they are nicotine patches. Substitutes for the real thing. The thing that's slowly killing him. He doesn't say they make the ache go away for a little while, that when he wakes up the next morning he'll remember them by their perfumes instead of their names: Bergamot. Sandalwood. Patchouli.

Instead he tells them lies.

His apartment is dark when he gets home. A car passes by outside, its headlamps chasing a rectangle of light around the bare walls of the room. The reflection in his bathroom mirror is used up. As empty as the husks of the flies caught between his screen and his windowpane. As dry as the rosepetals pressed in his black book. He opens the vanity cupboard, disrupting the image, and takes out a razor and then closes it again.

And then the hollow man is staring at him once more.

He cuts himself once, near the underside of his jaw, and wipes away the blood with his fingertips. When he rinses them beneath the faucet, the water runs red. After he has finished shaving, he cleans the razor with a tissue and sets it on the sink, and then he puts his hand on his chin and pulls his face from side to side, examining the smooth skin. It has been awhile since he was last clean-shaven. He does not like the way it looks.

He takes a handtowel off the rack and dries his face.

Remy lies down on the bed with a bottle of whiskey. He can still smell Sandalwood on the sheets. He drinks too quickly, and by the time the phone rings his legs won't work. The bottle slips from his fingers and falls to the floor with a thud. His chest heaves involuntarily. The sound of the phone is violent in the empty apartment, reverberating from the dentils, and each time it ends the silence seems louder than ever. Finally, the new answering machine beeps.

He hears his father's voice, but the words make no sense, and the last thing he remembers as he falls away into an unnatural sleep is something called the Brotherhood of Evil Mutants. He thinks to himself, _This is how the world ends,_ and it echoes over and over inside his skull.

This is how the world ends.

This is how the world ends.

This is how the world ends.

Not with a bang, but a whimper.

And then there is only blackness.

* * *

**A/N: **THIS CHAPTER WAS BASED ON A TRUE STORY. No, not really. It's all a lot of dross I wrote while I was "inspired." Inspired being the politically correct way of saying I was totally bombed on something called Goldschlager. Now there's a drink. Kids, try this at home. I don't know, am I being a bad influence again?

Special thanks to Erin of Canberra for help with St. John's accent and slang. Special thanks to all of you who have made the short list of people I like (AKA, reviewers). If not for you, I would've gotten way fed up trying to write this chapter and ad libbed the ending, and it would've wound up something like:

"And then he put the glass slipper on her foot, and lo! it fit, and Remy and Rogue rode away into the sunset and lived happily ever after. THE END."

And lastly, to everyone who's reading, thanks.

**Ana:** Wow. That's really, really generous of you. The truth of the matter is, I haven't seen the series for such a long time--I'm constantly worried that I'm screwing up left and right. So, thank you so much for your support!  
**RogueVampire:** Yes! Yes! Someone thought it was decent enough to review both chapters! Thank you so much.  
**Wildcard186: **Haha, thanks! It is definitely easy to get too carried away with a setting as rockin' as New Orleans. At the same time, I feel like I haven't done it justice, sometimes writing generic scenes that could happen almost anywhere. I'm glad you stumbled on it, too. Your review gave me warm fuzzies.  
**Emerald Cloud**: Just for you, I purposefully put off job-hunting so I could focus on publishing this chapter. ;) Hope you liked it.  
**Raven09**: It came! Late, but not never. Thanks so much for the fave, and thanks for reviewing!  
**Romylover**: Aw, thanks! I hope you liked the chapter. :)  
**pennylane87**: Wow. You are one of the nicest reviewers OF ALL TIME! Thank you so much.  
**ziRi.butterfly:** Yes! You're back! #glomp# You are the best favorite reviewer ever.  
**xxxxcrazychickxxxx**: Thanks! Hope you liked the chapter! :D  
**The Duplicitous One**: Haha. Oh, Remy'll get his turn. Damn, you've got pretty good eyes. Now I have to do something unpredictable. REMY & ROMY FOREVER!  
**ishandahalf**: Haha, thanks. Indeed, a cat-and-mouse game is in the works! I'll try to make it worth your while.  
**SarahtheRogue**: Wow. That's about the best compliment anyone could've given me. Thanks so much!**  
Lucia de'Medici: **Huh. I think I'm speechless_. _Wow. Pretty sure that's never happened to me before. All joking aside, I know. I know exactly what you mean. The heat. The black silhouettes of exotic ferns against a lavender sky. The parts of the city that vibrate with the echo of the ages. And something more. The cradle of voodoo. The smell of vice. The sinister slave barracks crawling with ivy and the gothic mansions that housed unspeakable evils. It's thrilling. It gets into your blood and it never gets out. Like it plants a little of its own dark hunger inside you and you always crave more of it.  
Anyway. I don't think I have to tell you that you're pretty much worshiped on this site and that your reviews are therefore gold. So, really truly genuinely--thanks. Also, when I was writing my finals essay for English 151 on Conformity and Rebellion, I came across a poem called "Miniver Cheevy," by Edwin Arlington Robinson. In the fifth stanza, Robinson wrote:

"Miniver loved the Medici,  
Albeit he had never seen one;  
He would have sinned incessantly  
Could he have been one."

And then there was a nifty note at the bottom of the page explaining that Medici was a family of bankers and statesmen, notorious for their cruelty, who ruled Florence for nearly two centuries during the Italian renaissance. That wouldn't have anything to do with your pen name, would it?


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